


Twelve Year Old Whiskey

by asymmetricalOverdose



Series: Feltdads, Stabdads, and Sleuthdads oh my! [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Feltdads, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-09
Updated: 2012-06-09
Packaged: 2017-11-07 09:17:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/429380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asymmetricalOverdose/pseuds/asymmetricalOverdose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Crowbar sometimes wonders why he puts up with Roxy's drinking and doesn't just put a better lock on the liquor cabinet like a good mobster parent. He also wonders why he hasn't killed Itchy yet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Twelve Year Old Whiskey

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on my tumblr (paranormal-noire.tumblr.com) a few months ago.
> 
> Feltdads is my favorite AU so far. Just saying.

Your name is Crowbar and you currently have no idea where you went wrong with this kid. When you found her, she was just a baby and raising her with the help of your dumbass coworkers was probably not the best of ideas, but you’re not parent material. Hell, your parents weren’t parent material, but nonetheless, you hoped that you could spare her the family (a term used loosely) curse of a terrible liver.

Sadly, you failed.

She’s twelve years old and your liquor cabinet’s open and several (expensive) bottles have been removed from the shelves and their contents emptied into a twelve year old’s stomach. You have no idea where she keeps it all. She’s basically a stick with limbs.

“Roxy.” You say in a low voice, your eyes narrowing at the scrawny blond drunk at your feet. She gives you a hiccup in response and giggles. “What are you doing?” A dumb question, but one you feel you need to ask anyway.

“I’m,” She starts, voice wobbling like a warped record as she grins up at you. “Drinkin’ an’ that’s ‘bout it, diddy-o.” She snorts and starts giggling hysterically at her verbal fumble. Or maybe it was an intentional fumble. You’re not sure.

You set your mouth in a hard, thin line as you watch the girl roll around and laugh at herself, sending bottles rolling across the floor. One hits your foot and you’re semi-relieved to see that it’s still half-full, but mostly displeased that it’s half-empty. “You’re twelve, Roxy.” You say as you pick her up under her arms and stand her up. She wobbles and gives you a pout.

“Sooooo?”

“So, you’re too young. When you’re twenty-one, then you can ruin your liver, cut it out yourself, and stomp on it. Until then, you’re not allowed anything stronger than root beer.”

The look she gives you would have made you feel like pond scum if you weren’t immune to it by this point. Twelve years of the puppy-dog pout tends to do that. Sadly, some Felt members haven’t figured out how to handle it. “That look’s not going to work.”

“Works on Itchy…” She grumbles.

“Itchy is an idiot and doesn’t know any better.” When she sticks her tongue out at you, you grab it and glare at her. All she does is look puzzled and then annoyed until you let her tongue go. “How much have you had?” Dumb question number two. You can easily count the bottles on the floor and you know that she’s drank about four and a half bottles of whiskey. Christ, she’s not even genetically yours and she’s got your tolerance.

Any other day, you’d be almost proud. But you had tried to be a good parental figure, so you weren’t really all that proud. You tried telling her that drinking was bad for her health, and then you would get drunk in the privacy of your room. Good parents did that, right? No, probably not, and it probably didn’t help that you spoon-fed her whiskey when she was a baby to get her to go to sleep.

In hindsight, that was probably your biggest mistake.

You let go of her and point in the direction of her room and, even drunk, she gets the picture and gives you a pout to end all pouts. “I dun wanna go to my womb. Room.”

You point again, adding in a stern glare that promises a visit to the time-out chair if she doesn’t comply. With a grumble, she sulks off towards her room and you turn your attention to the mess she made of the sitting room and try to decide if you should clean it up or leave it for someone else to deal with. Maybe he could blame. No, he told himself as he knelt and began picking up the bottles. She was his responsibility, so any mess she made he had to clean up.

Sadly.

You’re in the middle of gathering up bottle caps and rubber-bands from under one of the antique sofas, bottles in a neat pile beside you, when you hear someone run into the room. There’s a beat of silence, an intake of breath, and the last person you wanted to hear from or even think about starts speaking as if you’re deaf.

“Hey, hey, hey! Crowbar! Crowbar! Hey, douchebag!” You feel a headache begin to form behind your eyes. You don’t even look at him, just continue to try and reach under the sofa to reach that one bottlecap that’s escaped you five times now.

Ignore him and he’ll go away. You tell yourself that all the time. Sadly, it has yet to work.

“Hey, hey! Hey, quit ignoring me!”

You can feel him about ready to kick you to get your attention, and you decide that you’ve had a shitty enough day to earn you the right to hit someone first. The bottle bounces off his head with a loud, hollow “THUNK” and Itchy shouts out a string of curses as he falls on his back and grabs his forehead, kicking his feet like he was a five year old throwing a tantrum. “My face! You hit me in the face with a fucking bottle, you asshole! Ow, oh god, am I bleeding? Shit, I’m bleeding! Crowbar, you fucking asshole I’m going to pee on your bed for this!”

“You do, and I’ll shove your nose in it.” You retort, glaring at him.

He sits up and points at you as if it’s your fault that he was bugging you. “I’m not a dog, you giant piece of poo!” You raise an eyebrow at him. Was that really the worst insult he could fling at you? You suppose it was only a matter of time before he ran out of them with as often as he flings them around. He wipes blood off his forehead and says, cocking a bloodied thumb over his shoulder at the hall he had come from, “Your brat fuckin’ tripped me! She’s taking another alcohol coma nap in the hall, so go pick her up and get her outta the walk way!”

Yeah, you really need to have a talk with that girl. After you make sure she’s not a smear on the carpet.


End file.
